The curtains at the door, flung back by Joseph, had hardly settled once more into their places when he came back again, clutching Angelot by the arm.
Coming from the darkness, from the presence of Hélène, Angelot was dazzled and slightly out of breath when his uncle dragged him into the salon. He had not had time to ask a question; he came utterly unprepared into the presence of the family, and the faces that received him were not encouraging. Three at least were flushed with anger or confusion; his father's, his mother's, Madame de Sainfoy's. It was at her that he looked most intently; and he had never seen anything more unfriendly than the gleam of her eyes, the flash of her white teeth between lips suddenly drawn back like those of a fierce animal, while her flush faded, as Monsieur Joseph spoke, to a whiteness even more threatening. He understood Hélène's words, "If she knew, she would kill me." No, this woman would not have much mercy on anything that crossed her will—and Hélène was in her power.
Monsieur Joseph's slight hands, like Angelot's, were strong. The young fellow tried instinctively to wrench himself from his uncle's grasp on his arm, but it only tightened.
"Here, dear friends, I bring you the alternative!" cried Monsieur Joseph, in his joyfullest tone. "Why not marry Mademoiselle Hélène to the best and handsomest boy in Anjou—in France, for that matter—a boy we have all known from his cradle—who will have a good fortune, a prudent father's only child—who would, no doubt, though I grieve to say it, serve under any flag you please for such a prize. Yes, I am safe in saying so, for—"
The romantic little gentleman was stopped in his wild career. Angelot, his eyes blazing, with a white face and teeth set as furiously as Madame de Sainfoy's own, turned round upon him, seized him with his free hand by the other arm, and shook him with all his young strength, hissing out: "Will you be quiet, Uncle Joseph! Will you hold your tongue, if you please, and leave me to manage my own affairs."
"Come, come, what does all this mean?" cried Urbain, stepping forward.
"It means that my uncle is mad—mad—you know you are!" Angelot said in a choked voice.
Still holding Monsieur Joseph with a dog's firm grip, he stared into his eyes and shook his head violently.
"What, ungrateful—" the little uncle tried to say, but Angelot's face, his totally unexpected rage, seemed to suggest such unknown mysteries that the words died in his throat.
Suddenly released, he dropped into a chair and swore prodigiously under his breath, quite forgetting the presence of ladies in the unnatural, awful change that had come over his nephew. He stared at Angelot, who was indeed the centre of all eyes; his mother sitting upright in consternation; his father with angry brow and queerly smiling mouth; Hervé de Sainfoy very grave, with elevated eyebrows; the Comtesse leaning back in her chair, hard, fierce, watchful, yet a shade less angry than before. If this was only a fancy of that ridiculous Joseph, it might not signify—yet who knew? She was ready to suspect any one, every one, even the young man's father. The name of La Marinière was odious to her.